House help relationships

I can't stand house help.
Sure, I love what they do: sweep the floors, wash the dishes, make your beds and sometimes cook up a meal. But other than that, I despise them.
It's nothing personal to be honest. I have no grudges towards any of the helpers I've previously had. But most of the time, they don't last. The last time there was one present in my house was eight years ago, and she didn't last long.
Here's the thing. Their job is to keep everything clean, make sure nothing is a mess. So with that said, they're constantly on the move, arranging things, touching your stuff. And I don't like that. I don't like leaving a room with a book on a table and coming back to see it gone(alright that's exaggerated, but you get the point).
You see, I think most of them believe that whatever can be moved, stored, and hidden should be moved, stored, and hidden. Whatever's not a piece of bulky furniture is a mess. Like, I know it's a mess but at least I know where my stuff are!!!
One time, a helper stuffed a stuff-less stuffed animal in a drawer because she thought it was a rag. That was quite traumatizing.
Aside from that, I don't like being around a lot of people. Home is where I get to be my ultimate ugly self and the only people who are allowed to see me at that state are my family. So having a helper around is quite uncomfortable.
I honestly believe that househelp is one of the best things that can happen to a household,but for people like me, I'd rather live in a pig sty than be with a stranger.

100 Things to Write About: Birthdays

Birthdays never really end up the way I plan them to be. Your birthday was no exception. I was planning to celebrate it by myself, probably eat a slice of cake and mope about you not liking me. Basically the same things I was doing in your past birthdays.

This year was different, though. It’s not that I didn’t want to celebrate your birthday, or that today wasn’t special. It’s just that today felt ordinary, and I was rushing in and out of classrooms to bother about feelings that should have been dead long ago.

I take this as a sign from the universe telling me that you are no longer worth the cheesy blogposts, tweets, or the poems that I write. Maybe this is finally the time where I realize that I am finally over you because suddenly your birthday does not feel like a holiday.

So congratulations on being nineteen and travelling around the world and being ridiculously handsome. But I guess I’d have to congratulate myself too. I guess, probably, I’ve moved past you.

This calls for some cake.

The Summer of 2014

The summer of 2014 is definitely not one of the best summers ever. I’d like to explain and report everything to you, dear reader, but I’m afraid I don’t want to (which is quite ironic because I’m keeping a personal blog about feelings and things). It’s not that I don’t really want to. It’s mostly because I’m not sure in how to put everything into words, and whether now is the best time to divulge certain things.

To start off, it was a summer full of changes. And like I’ve said in my past posts, I’m not really good with change. Some things happened in a way that I knew they would happen, but I just didn’t realize that they would happen then, or how I felt in ways far more than I expected myself to behave. I didn’t realize a lot of things until that summer, and yet, in a way, I was waiting for that summer to happen for all my life.

I hope this is enough of an explanation for the past three months of silence. And I hope you’re not tired of reading my entries.

I’m staying in a dormitory now and updating will be a bit harder because of college, but here goes nothing!

Until then.

The Summer Checklist

My sister has a psychology term for the two types of people in the world. Basically, the type that needs lists in their life and the type that could care less. Guess which type I am.
But seriously, I can't live without lists. I need paper dedicated to list-making (like the one in the picture) or electronic documents in bullets, just to see which task or object must be accomplished first.
And with all that said,I'd like to tell you that I have made a list for summer.
"What? A list? For summer?"
"But summer should be about unplanned events! Summer should be something quirky and spontaneous!"

Uh, thank you for your inputs of what summer should be, but, uh, no thanks. The Summer Checklist seems like a good omen for summer, in hopes that I fulfill most, if not all, listed in the list. The List is important because if you're like me, most likely, if it's not written down in a list, then it doesn't exist and it's not going to happen.

So here's the list, in no particular order.

1. Get sleep. Get lots and lots and lots of sleep because when school comes you won't have any. 
2. And drink a lot of water too. 
3. Speaking of water, head to the beach. Or pool. Whatever floats your boat.
4. But don't forget the sunscreen because although it may look like a tan now, it may end up being skin cancer in the future. Protect, protect, protect.
5. Read a lot. Read everywhere because this is the only time you can read without worrying about having a pop quiz about it the next day.
6. And probably do a little summer cleaning. This means throwing out everything you don't want. If you're considering of throwing something out, then you should throw it out.
7. Get a job. Or make a business. Just do something to earn a little something.
8. Rediscover yourself. I bought a coloring book. This summer is going to be pretty exciting.
9. Do not think about your grades. I repeat, do. Not. Think. About your grades.
10. Watch a lot of TV series because who has time for that when school comes? Not me.
11. Make a summer playlist. If you don't have an idea, you can take inspiration from mine.Breath Me(Four Tet Remix)- Sia, Lights (Shook Remix)-Ellie Goulding, Settle Down (EMBRZ Remix)-The 1975,Only See You- Janet Labelle, Buzzcut Season- Lorde,You're the Best- Wet, I Wanna Be Yours- Arctic Monkeys

*most of the content of this post is dedicated to me, tbh. Much apologies if they're not to your liking

On Leaving

I hate it when people I care about leave or move away from me.
They tell you things like "No, it's not you." or "I've got some issues to solve for myself." but you're not really sure if they're being a hundred percent honest with you when they say that they need to drift away or transfer and stuff.
I guess this is just bitterness, to be honest.
I'm not a very clingy person, so when I cling to someone, then that person is really special because that doesn't happen very often. And because I get so attached to said person, the leaving becomes a bit harder to cope up with, in comparison to the regular non-clinging friendship.
Every person leaves for different reasons. One leaves by taking up a different college major from me, another leaves by transferring schools, and another leaves by just not being what we were being. I tell myself "I'm happy for you! You're doing what you want to do.You're doing what makes you happy!" but that's not totally the case. I end up telling them "Don't go away. It's such a waste." or simply (and desperately) "Don't go."
I tell myself that what I'm feeling is genuine concern, that I don't want them to leave because I see the potential they have in staying the same place where I am, but that's not totally true. Maybe a part of me feels that way when I say those lines, but most of it is driven by selfishness. The reason why I don't want them to leave is because I don't want to be left alone. I don't want them to leave because I don't want to go back to square one and start making new relationships to replace the old ones that don't need to be replaced. I don't want to make an effort in catching up with each other because then I'll be clingy and I don't want to be clingy.
I just... don't.
And I hate this selfish feeling. I want to be someone who can understand and accept the leaving, to be happy for these important people who are making their own journeys in life. I can't explain how hard it is to want to let people go but also anchor them beside you.
Friendship is hard, man.

The Doors We Close

Today, I did something that I always thought I'd never do: I locked myself out of a house.
I was just going to the neighborhood store, to get something to eat while doing schoolwork. With some cash in my pocket, I locked the doorknob and closed it behind me, only to realize that I forgot to bring the keys with me.
The shock hit me like a cold wave. I turned to the door slowly, and prayed that everything I did for the past ten seconds didn't happen. Twisting the knob, I held my breath. Clunk, clunk. I was shut off from the inside.

Good thing I have a relative who lives nearby, otherwise I would have been staying in front of the house for the whole day. The thing is, the experience was some sort of metaphor for me. It made me start thinking of the many 'doors' I have closed and locked in my life. Oftentimes, these doors are relationships and opportunities, some doors being open, as they are always present in my life. The doors that are closed are relationships that need to be rekindled, and those that are locked are the ones that I can never return to.

There aren't many open doors in my life. I have a tendency to close each door as soon as I see another one open. I'm not good at keeping friendships alive, I'm not good at catching up and all that jazz. Once people leave, they're closing the door to my life. Sometimes it stays that way.

Sometimes, the doors we close are the ones that we just open for a moment, and seeing that behind it isn't what we want, or what we expect, so we close them immediately, not giving it a second look. The doors remain closed, and what lies behind them are never fully discovered because of a nasty first impression, or because they just didn't make much of an impact. Sometimes, when you're looking for something, they hide behind that closed door, waiting for you to find them, to open the door and pick them up. To say something as silly as 'Found you!' and lead them out. But the door stays closed and we end up looking for things that aren't what we were looking for in the first place but are good enough (although the thing with good enough is that it's never good enough).

Sometimes, the doors we close get locked up for various reasons. Sometimes, we lock them on purpose, or by accident, or we are locked out. We lock them up, never to return to the room it leads to, hoping that what it contains never gets to you. Most of the time, these locked doors are conscious choices, thought hard about and mentally debated. But sometimes,these doors happen by accident (like what happened to me today). When you realize your mistake, you turn the knob, hoping that by the nth turn it becomes unlocked. Or you bang the door and scream, thinking that whoever is in the other side can hear, hoping they open the door, knowing that it was a mistake. And maybe, in a desperate attempt, you break the door, thinking that everything will be OK. But it's not because there's obvious damage, and shards and splinters all around. Yeah, it's open. But it's not the same anymore. You tell the person at the other side "I'll fix it" but you both know that the 'fixing' isn't going to do much, and then you realize that maybe it was a bad idea. Maybe you should have kept the door locked.

Oftentimes, the doors we close are by choice. Some are good decisions, and some are bad. But the thing about these doors is that although you have closed and locked some of them, there are a whole lot of open doors waiting for you. It's basically up to you whether to keep them that way.

The Valentine's Day 2k14 Playlist

This may seem really late, but I had to post a Valentine's Day related entry because I made one last year (kinda like making a tradition, or something like that), and also because I have nothing better to post.

Here are the songs I've been playing on repeat last Friday. I hope they are to your liking.

Crave You (Flight Facilties)-Daniela Andrade (4:12)

Like I Did- Gina Cimmelli (4:16)

I Was A Fool- Tegan and Sara (3:31)

Little Person- Jon Brion (4:02)

Young Folks (Peter Bjorn and John)- Dawn Landes (3:27)

I Still Think About You

I still think about you even if I tell myself that I don't anymore, which is a bummer because if my brain doesn't listen to me, who will? I've tried hard to stop, to be honest. I close my eyes every time I pass your school, so I won't end up analyzing the features of every male dressed in a student's uniform, looking for your signature features. I hid the class pictures you and I shared, and I'm this close to blocking you from Facebook (which is a pretty bad move, because everybody will know that I'm trying to forget about you, and I don't want them to think that way even though it's true).
I think the problem about forgetting you is that I don't know where to start. Most people tell you to cut off connections right away, because that's where it all begins. Like taking out weeds, where you uproot them  because without their little capillaries of life sucking out all the minerals from the soil, they'd shrivel and die. The problem about forgetting you is that there are no roots to uproot, no direct spot to target. The part in my brain dedicated to you is very abstract, where the lines are blurred and the colors are smudged into different colors. You don't know where it ends, much less where it starts.
So I still think about you, even though it's poisonous and sad because I know you barely think of me. I still think about you and your stupid green shirt, and the way you lost weight over the year. I still think about why I never said the things I wanted to say, and why I don't feel remorseful for not saying them.
You're there in the rain, when the weather is gloomy and gray. You are there in flash floods and little rusty tricycles. You are there in little notebooks with cheap padlocks.
You are still there.
And maybe, to start not thinking about you, I have to accept that you will always be there. Maybe accepting the part that you will never really go away is the first step- the fact that you may be significant now, but in a certain time, you may not be.
You are a part of me in a sense that most of my pubescent years were dedicated to you. And in order to start another stage of life, your part has to end. It may be slow, but I'm getting there somewhere, somehow. And one day, I won't be thinking of you anymore.

The Walk to Your House: A Short Story

I knew it was a bad idea to head out my house at twelve in the morning just to see how you were doing.
I forgot to grab a jacket and scarf on the way out, and was walking down the wet pavement with nothing but flip flops and shorts, and a t-shirt too. I should have changed, I told myself. I should have thought about myself before I did anything for you. But like everything that involved you, my body went on autopilot, desperate to please you, desperate to be with you.
So I wrapped my hands around my arms, hoping that they would suffice as substitutes for jackets or cardigans or other clothing used for warmth. My cellphone juggled in my bottom's pocket, holding the text message you sent me ten- no, five- minutes ago.
"Where are you? Let's talk."
That's all it said and it was enough to make me leave everything I was doing- to jump off bed and sneak out of my house. To forget what happened three months ago.
I thought we mutually agreed that we'd never talk to each other again after what happened the past few months. Like how you said you needed space and how I lied that I needed some too. But then you send a text like that- who do you think you are, to send texts like that to people you haven't talked to? Who are you to tell people what to do?
Like everything that involved you, I was an idiot. Like how I gave you cash when you were 'running short', or when you needed that ride somewhere and I was your plus one, when really, all you needed was a ride. I'm still trying to find out how I fell for it though. Maybe I was blinded in more ways than one, or maybe I was just insecure and happy that someone finally noticed me.
Maybe by doing all those stupid things, you would consider me worthy of you.
Maybe, just maybe, you'd want me back after this walk to your house.
I let out a sigh, and pushed my hair back. I was halfway there. It wasn't a long walk. We used to walk to each other's houses and climb up our bedroom windows, sharing secrets that we promised we'd never tell anyone. Then the visits slowly disappeared. We'd then agree to just meet up midway our houses, the waiting shed by the bus stop, every nine in the evening. That was our routine, until  it became just my routine, you giving out excuses that you had homework, or that you were tired. I was tired, and I had homework too, but I was there. So why weren't you? Until now, I still don't know.
Before I realized it, I was standing in front of your porch. Your lawn, to be exact. I could feel the wet grass on my feet, mostly because I was wearing flip flops, dammit. Your bedroom window was the only one with a light that night. Your parents usually slept early, exact opposites of you.
I was contemplating if I should climb up your window, like the way I used to three months ago, when you were sick with fever and feeling lonely. But then again, I remembered that there was a reason why that happened three months ago, and why that can never happen again. I punched in your number in my phone, my fingers automatically finding the keys that made it. I never really forgot it, though I convinced myself I did.
It rang multiple times, until the operator told me that you were busy. So I rang again, and again, and again. And still, you didn't pick up.
I rubbed my left eye with the back of my hand, as I could feel the tears coming in. You used to say that you hated it when I cried. I sighed again, and sat on the pavement, not caring if my bottom was going to be wet. I was cold, from being practically naked in the cold spring air. You weren't going to pick up my calls. And even if I was in front of your house at 12 something a.m., you weren't going to come out of your house and welcome me in like you used to.
Then I heard something open, and you called out my name. I turned and saw you at the front door, smiling at me.
You invited me in. You acted as if we haven't been not talking for the past three months, like nothing happened. But after you gave me a cup of hot chocolate, you asked me "Why are you here?"
And I, being the idiot that I was, showed you your message. "Because you said so," I replied.
I could see your face turning red for me, and then you looked away. "That was supposed to be for someone else."
I knew that was coming but I came anyway. I wanted to tell you that, but I didn't because I was stupid and young and desperate. Instead, I smiled and thanked you for the hospitality, and ran back home, and hid under the blankets, telling myself that tonight didn't happen.

And then I woke up.

An Excuse for Inactivity

I haven't written for about 6+ months, which is kinda weird seeing how this blog is almost a year old and barely has ten posts in it. So much for being a keeper of everything that's changed.
I've somehow convinced myself that if I got a journal I could make it a more private way of holding my thoughts. I did get one though, and I even wrote on the first few pages. I haven't added a new entry for about three weeks. I don't think that's very good if I'm making keeping track of my thoughts regularly as a New Year's Resolution.
The thing is, I keep telling myself that I'm just being lazy. But there are times when I do take an hour to sit down and put my journal and a pen in front of me. Nothing comes out. I pick the pen, open the cap, and flip to a blank page, but the pen doesn't come in contact with the paper. Is that laziness? I don't think so. I've already put it out, but I'm still hesitating to bring out whatever's in my head.
I've considered a lot of things that have given me this writer's block- probably stress, or maybe I'm too tired. It's only recently that I've admitted to myself that I'm afraid of putting my thoughts down.
Probably it's funny, how putting down how you feel can be so frightening. It's supposed to be therapeutic, so it's not supposed to scare you, right? But the thing is, I find it scary. The thought of immortalizing the dirtiest, darkest parts of you on a piece of paper or on a blogging platform is probably one of the biggest things that can make my chest feel heavy and make me squirm in my seat. Maybe it's because when it's all in your head you can convince yourself that you've confused your feelings with your imagination-probably with a TV series or a depressing book. When you write it down, there's no turning back. You've verified and acknowledged that these feelings are real and that they exist somewhere deep inside you. You cannot deny it- it's in your nature no matter how hard you try to hide it.
I'm not sure if I should apologize or not, and if I do to choose to apologize, who would it be? To my readers? To myself? I don't really know a lot of things anymore. I'm at this point in my life where I don't know where I'm going and who I want to be. I don't really know who I am anymore. I've lost track of the goals I've set in mind, and I'm not sure that my thirteen year old self would be proud of me.
So much for keeping track of everything that's changed.